The Outcast by Rosalyn West Page B

it.”
    As harsh liquor washed over the open wound, Deacon’s breath sucked in and held, his body going rigid until it was done. Then, slowly, he relaxed, never making a noise even while suffering the fires of hell. Reeve stared at him, impressed by the show of control.
    No wonder he’d made such a damn good spy for the Confederacy.
    He turned his attention back to the wound. “Looks clean. It’ll need stitching.”
    “Patrice can do it.”
    Seeing her sudden pallor, Reeve took the needle and thread. “I will.”
    “No.” Patrice took the sewing materials from him, her voice surprisingly level. “I’ll do it. I’m sure my talents with the needle are superior to yours.”
    And while her brother lay motionless on the ground, his eyes closed, his breathing regular, she stitched up his arm as if attaching lace to a cotillion gown. Her hands were steady, her stitches small and even, as good as his mother’s, Reeve thought with approval. And when it was done, she made a good knot and bit off the remaining thread.
    Deacon sat up gradually and flexed his arm. “Nice work. You’d have made a good field surgeon.” His praise won a faint smile. He glanced over at the mess they’d made of the front entrance to his home. “Start clearing that away while Patrice binds me up.”
    Reeve stared at him, incredulously, but Jericho went right to work.
    “You don’t mean to stay?”
    Deacon returned his look with one of mild irritation. “Of course, I do. I want to check that roof and patch what I can before nightfall.”
    Reeve wondered if it was brutal Reb training or his own background that made Deacon Sinclair such a hard piece of work.
    In a matter of five minutes, his arm bandaged in strips torn from his own shirt, Deacon was up in the attic looking for leaks. And his sister was tying up her hair under a broad-brimmed hat. For the first time, Reeve got a good look at her. And he couldn’t look away.
    She wore pants. He was so startled by the surprisingsensuality of those britches on her curves that his tone came out sounding angry.
    “Does your mama know you left the house lookin’ like that?”
    “I am not a little girl under her mama’s thumb anymore, if you hadn’t noticed.”
    If he hadn’t noticed before, he was noticing now. No, there was nothing childish about Patrice Sinclair. Just as hardship had weathered her soft skin, years had matured her softly feminine figure. Gentle swells were toned by physical efforts. No sign of the coquette showed in her confident stance. And there was no question of the effect those trousers had on his celibate state. It was turn away or disgrace himself.
    “You’d best head back to the Glade. We got no tea parties to give here today.”
    She surprised him by gripping his arm and jerking him back around to face her. Her expression was fierce.
    “This is my home, Reeve Garrett. No one tells me to leave.” She tugged on heavy work gloves, the kind field hands used while cutting crops. “I have things to do. If you want tea, you’ll just have to make your own.”
    She made it all the way around the back of the house before the chills started in. Knowing she was out of sight, Patrice allowed her knees to give way, going down on them in the overgrown grasses. Leaning forward onto the brace of her palms, her head hanging low while blood pounded between her temples, she let the shivers of sickness have their way. All the horror she’d pushed aside quivered up through her. Her stomach roiled. Her vision filled with a swelling sea of red.
    Then, gentle hands cupped her elbows, lifting her into a swallowing embrace. She leaned gratefully into it, recognizing the hard planes on a purely sensory level even as her mind whirled in weak spirals.
    “Close your eyes,” came a quiet crooning. “It’ll pass in a minute.”
    She surrendered herself to that suggestion. And eventually, the seesaw of sickness slowed and steadied, so she could take a calming breath. Her palms raised,